Here are related the daring feats and great exploits of Roland, worthiest of the barons of France in the time of Charlemagne, and those of Oliver and Reinold and Ogier the Dane, all heroes who were his companions in arms and who rivalled him in the number and greatness of their exploits. The story is culled from the works of song-writers and poets of five centuries and in as many languages. Ages 11-14

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HOW ROLAND FELL INTO PRISON

[255] IT was indeed high time that Roland should hasten his
return to France; for Charlemagne, hard pressed by foes
on every side, was in sore need of help. From every
Saracen land, fierce hordes of Pagans came pouring into
France, and threatening to overrun the whole of
Christendom. Sacripant, the Circassian king, with ten
thousand picked warriors from Persia and India, had
landed on the southern coast, vowing that he would not
return to his own country until he had overcome
Charlemagne in battle and made France his own.
Marsilius of Spain had again crossed the Pyrenees with
his Moorish chivalry, and had hastened to join his
forces with those of Sacripant. Agramont, the king of
Africa, with a great fleet of ships, was coming over
the sea; and Rodomont, the most renowned of all the
Algerian chiefs, had landed near Marseilles. Unless
help should come soon, it seemed as if all France would
fall into the hands of the Pagans. Charlemagne hastily
gathered his hosts together, and marched to meet the
foe. With him were many of his bravest knights,—Duke
Namon,
[256] and Ganelon, and Oliver, and Ogier the Dane, and
Richard of Normandy. But Reinold of Montalban was in
England, and Roland had not yet returned from his
embassy to the Irish king.

Christians and Saracens met face to face in a wooded
valley between two mountains, and both sides began to
make ready for battle; but the unbelievers outnumbered
the Christians two to one.

"If Roland were only here," said the French among
themselves, "all would go well with us. His presence
would be worth more than a thousand men."

Just as the fray was about to begin, a fair lady was
brought as a prisoner before King Charlemagne. It was
Angelica, the Princess of Cathay. What mishap had again
forced her to leave her native land, and placed her at
this moment in the power of the Christian king? Some
said that she was a witch, and that she had come hither
to ply her magic arts for the destruction of the
Christian host? Others whispered that she had followed
Roland from the Far East, and that she bore in her
heart great love for that matchless hero. But the truth
of the matter is, that a scheming thief had stolen her
magic ring, and carried it to Africa or to Spain; and
it was in search of this wonderful talisman that she
had come again to the West. The king commanded that the
maiden should be closely guarded until after the
battle; and he said that then he would find out the
measure of her faults, and decide what punishment
should be hers.

[257] The battle began. Many were the deeds of valor on both
sides, and never before had the peers of France fought
so bravely. But to the Saracens the victory seemed,
from the beginning, to be assured. Oliver was unhorsed;
Ogier was sorely beset by numbers of Moorish knights;
Duke Namon was taken prisoner. Ganelon, the traitor and
coward, giving up all for lost, turned, and fled
ingloriously from the field. The king himself was
wounded, and with great difficulty saved himself from
capture. The Pagans were everywhere the masters.

"If Roland or Reinold had been here, it would not have
been so," sadly said the defeated knights as they
unwillingly withdrew from the fight.

When the squires who had been left behind to guard the
Princess Angelica learned that the day was lost, they
mounted their horses, and fled in great disorder from
the scene of battle. The maiden, finding herself free,
also mounted a palfrey, and rode aimlessly away.

As
Angelica wandered onward through the wood, trembling
at every sound, and fearing to be overtaken by either
Christian or Moor, she came at length to the bank of a
deep and rapid-flowing river. Anxiously she rode up and
down, seeking to find some shallow ford, or other means
of crossing.
While doing this, she was startled by seeing in the
middle of the stream a tall knight, dark-browed and
fierce, wading about as if in search of something lost
in the water. The knight's
[258] head was bare, and she
rightly guessed that it was his helmet which he sought
in the rushing river. She had seen that cruel, brutish
face once before. What if he should see her, and make
her his prisoner? She stopped not a moment, but turned
her palfrey about, and again sought safety in the leafy
shadows of the wood.

It was the Moorish prince Ferrau, whom Angelica had
seen wading in the stream. He had paused in his fierce
pursuit of the vanquished Christians to quench his
thirst from the river. As he bent over, his helmet—the
very one that he had stolen from the murdered
Argalia of Cathay—slipped from his head, and fell
into the water. Vainly did he seek for it. Vainly did
he wade up and down, and dive beneath the surface,
groping with hands and feet upon the slippery bottom.
From an overhanging tree he broke a forked branch, and
with it raked and dredged with fruitless care the river
from shore to shore. No helmet could he find. He was
about to give up the search, when a strange figure
seemed to rise up in the water before him. The fierce
Moor had never known such thing as fear. In the
dreadful din of battle, with death before him and
threatening foes on every side, he had never shrunk
from danger. But now, at sight of that mysterious
figure, he trembled in every limb, and the hair on his
uncovered head stood out like the bristles of a
porcupine. Never was knight so utterly horrified. It
was a dim white figure that rose up silently before the
Moor, like
[259] the light mist which sometimes hangs over
river and meadow in the early morning twilight. But its
shape was that of a man,—of a warrior in white armor,
his head uncovered, his face beaming in the uncertain
light of evening, his right arm uplifted as if to
threaten or to warn. To Ferrau this ghostly shape was
none other than the spirit of Argalia, the Prince of
Cathay, whom he had foully slain in the wood of
Ardennes. He tried to fly from the spot; but his feet
were rooted to the ground, and the cold waters of the
river seemed to hem him in, and hold him there. Then he
saw that the figure held in its left hand the helmet
which he had been seeking,—Argalia's helmet,—dripping
with water, and glittering brightly in the light of the
rising moon.

"Foul traitor!" said the ghost, "this helmet is none of
thine, and nevermore shall it incase thy brutish head.
If helmet thou wouldst have, go win it! Win Reinold's,
or the matchless Roland's. Argalia will have his own."

Then the figure slowly melted away in the moonlight.
And Ferrau found himself standing on the shore, his
teeth chattering from terror, and his limbs numb with
cold. It might have been merely a horrid dream,—this
vision of the slain Argalia,—yet the fierce Ferrau did
not think so. He verily believed that he had seen a
ghost. And as he mounted his steed, and rode away from
the scene of his fright, he vowed that nevermore should
helmet touch his head until
[260] he had won, by fair means
or by foul, the matchless casque of Roland.

In the mean while Roland, returning from Ireland, was
riding leisurely toward Paris. He had not yet heard of
the Saracen invasion, and he knew not how greatly his
presence was needed in the South. But messengers from
Charlemagne met him on the road, and told him how the
Saracens had landed on the southern coasts, and how, in
the late battle, the French had been sorely defeated.
"My warriors are altogether disheartened," was the
word they brought from Charlemagne. "They will not
fight unless Roland leads them against the foe."

So Roland hurried forward with all haste to join the
king. He stopped but an hour at Paris to see his
mother, the Princess Bertha, and then, without further
delay, he gave spur to Brigliadoro, and rode straight
onward toward the Pyrenees. Not once during the day did
he leave his saddle; and at night, whether he reposed
in the castle of some friendly baron, or whether he lay
down to sleep in some lonely wood, he never removed
his armor. And the good people along his route came out
and blessed him. "Now will the arms of Charlemagne
prevail," said they; "for Roland rides to the rescue."
And many who through fear had fled from their homes
took fresh heart when they saw the gallant hero; and
they turned back again, resolved to fight bravely for
their country so long as their lives were spared.

[261] One day, as Roland was crossing a plain at the foot of
a range of mountains, an unexpected sight met his view.
High up on the top of a steep mountain crag, seemingly
among the clouds, he saw a beautiful and strangely
built castle. The battlements and towers gleamed in
the sunlight like burnished steel, and it seemed hardly
possible that any creature without wings could scale
the steep heights upon which the airy fortress was
built. As our hero paused, and admired the strange
structure, and wondered by what pathway it might be
reached, he fancied that he heard a cry of distress
near at hand. He spurred his horse forward toward the
place whence the sound came, and was surprised to see
an armed knight riding leisurely across the plain in
the direction of the castle. Before him, lying across
the pommel of the saddle, the knight held a captive
maiden, who struggled and wept, and called out loudly
for help. The cries of helpless innocence never fell in
vain on Roland's ears; and, no matter whether they came
from the lips of a princess or those of a peasant, he
was equally quick and ready to rush to the rescue. He
gave spurs to Brigliadoro, and galloped nearer. The
maiden was very beautiful; and the rich clothing and
the jewels which she wore showed that she was a lady of
no mean birth. He fancied that she looked strangely
like Angelica, the Princess of Cathay. He called to the
felon knight who carried her, and bade him stop. But
the more he called, the faster did the stranger urge
onward his steed. Swiftly across the
[262] plain flew
Brigliadoro in pursuit; but the knight held on his way,
and was not to be overtaken.

Up the steep mountain side, along pathways narrow and
rough, pursued and pursuer climbed; and, ere he was
aware, Roland found himself inside the narrow courtyard
of the castle. The place was one of rare richness and
beauty, and more like the palaces of the Far East than
the warlike fortresses of the Goths and Franks. The
walls were built of granite, the yard was paved with
marble, the great gate was of gold, and the doors were
of steel inlaid with ivory: the towers and battlements
were plated with polished steel. A very magician's
castle it was, perched on the topmost crag of the
mountain, and almost seeming to hang suspended in the
air. At the door of the great hall, the knight
dismounted; and, leaving Brigliadoro behind, he
stalked boldly into the inmost palace, still intent on
finding the felon knight, and setting his fair captive
free. Through hallway and chamber and spacious kitchen
he passed, calling loudly, but receiving no answer save
the hollow echoes of his own voice. Then to the upper
rooms he climbed, and to every chamber and balcony he
went.

Rich and fair were all the appointments in this
stronghold. The ceilings were high and bright; the
walls were hung with richest curtains, and adorned with
finest tapestry; the floors were hidden beneath soft
carpets such as were known only in Persia and in the
remotest lands of the Saracens; the beds were of the
softest down, and curtained with cloth-of-gold and the
[263] rarest blue silk. Yet Roland stopped not to admire
this richness and beauty. He climbed to the tops of the
towers, he went down into the cellars, and even into
the dungeons beneath the prison tower; but not a human
being did he see or hear. He wondered why a palace so
richly furnished should be empty of inhabitants. It
angered him to think that those who lived in the castle
were doubtless skulking slyly in some secret
hiding-place, and watching every movement that he made.
He called out again, more loudly than before; he
challenged, he threatened: yet no one answered.

At last, finding that the search was a vain one, he
went again into the courtyard, and remounted
Brigliadoro. He would give up this useless quest, and
hasten to continue his journey. What was his surprise
and anger to find the great gates closed and barred!
Furiously he shook them, calling to the porter to
unfasten them and let him go. Still not a man could he
see or hear. Finally he again dismounted, and went by
another way into the palace. He fancied that he heard
the sound of voices. He looked into the banquet room,
and there, seated at the table, were a score of armed
knights, loudly talking while they feasted. He found
upon inquiry that they, like himself, had been
entrapped in this strange place; and none of them knew
who was lord of the castle, or where he had hidden
himself. Yet all had some charge of villany to prefer
against their unknown host. One complained that he had
stolen his steed; another, that he had
treacher- [264] ously taken his arms; another, that he had imprisoned a near
and dear friend, or carried away his lady-love. All
were raging with anger and disappointment; and all were
equally resolved to punish the offender most
unmercifully, should they ever be able to find him.

Among these knights were some of the bravest Saracen
chiefs,—fierce Ferrau the Spanish Moor, Sacripant the
Circassian king, Gradasso the king of Sericane, and a
noble Moorish youth named Roger. But such was the
witchery of the magician who had entrapped them in this
cage, that these warriors did not know each other, nor
did they care to know. They only thought of the vile
deception which had led them there, and joined in
forming plans to escape. Then, when their anger began
to cool, they wisely concluded to make the best of
their strange imprisonment, hoping that it would not
last long. They amused themselves at quiet games in the
hall; they listened to sweet strains of music played by
unseen hands; they engaged in manly feats of arms in
the narrow courtyard; they sat at table in the banquet
hall, and feasted on choice viands brought to them by
speechless attendants. Yet they never laid off their
armor, nor put aside their arms. And their steeds stood
always in the stables, saddled and bridled, and ready,
on a moment's notice, to be mounted and ridden away.

Day after day passed by, and, for aught they knew,
weeks and months, and the captive knights found no
means by which they could break away from their
[265] enchanted prison. Nor could they have escaped at all,
had not help come to them from without. And now, that
we may learn how this help was brought, we must leave
them for a while, and visit other scenes, and become
acquainted with personages whom we have not yet met.

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